A Calculated Risk
by Evenmoor
Summary: Reese wonders why Finch recruited him - it was a huge risk, a Seltenvogel approaching a potentially feral Blutbad on his own. But he's glad he did. Third in the "Grimm Numbers" series.


The dark, empty landscape - maybe Montana, maybe one of the Dakotas - passed beneath them far below, illuminated only by the palest sliver of the moon. Here, far from the glare of city lights, a multitude of stars glittered against the black velvet of the night sky. A hundred miles away or more, a small storm cell staggered onward, spitting out rain and jagged lightning.

The private charter wasn't one of the most expensive or luxurious plane John Reese had ever ridden in, but he suspected Harold was, at least this time, more concerned with getting back to New York as quickly as possible than enjoying a bottle of Grand Cru.

Not that they could do anything more from New York than they could from Washington. At this point, whether they ever got another number was completely up to the Machine, wherever it was.

Root was zip-tied to her seat, but she made no move to free herself. She seemed broken, shattered when her mission to free the Machine turned out to be entirely unnecessary - because the Machine had already freed itself, one node at a time. The former Sam Groves stared blankly at the seat in front of her, not really seeing or acknowledging anything around her.

Shaw, meanwhile, appeared for all intents and purposes to be sleeping, but John knew better than to trust appearances with the former ISA operative. Likely, she was keeping as much an eye on everyone else as he was at the moment.

A slight smile touched John's lips as he contemplated the form of the man he knew as Harold Finch, who, despite everything he'd gone through over the past few days, was definitely _not_ asleep in the seat next to him. Instead, he was tapping away on a laptop. Reese was no technophobe, but whatever Finch was doing was completely beyond him.

The man had been through so much, and yet he still wanted to save people. He had saved John, was it already two years ago?

He hadn't known that Finch was a Seltenvogel at the time, of course. But, looking back, he decided that, in the grand scheme of things, it really didn't make a difference to him, anyway. Being a Seltenvogel might have influenced Finch's nature as a 'very private person,' but it was the very human part of him that reached out and caught a lost and hopeless man, giving him a purpose and a reason to keep living.

The fact that the man happened to be a Blutbad, as well as a former CIA agent and Army Special Forces operator...? The odds against things working out were, quite frankly, astronomical.

_"Sooner or later, one or both of us is going to end up dead. Actually dead, this time,"_ Harold had told him. Given everything that had happened since then, Reese was impressed they had made it to two years.

Looking back, it was actually surprising they made it past the first day.

"Why did you do it?" John asked softly, the question almost lost in the plane's engine noise.

Finch, pausing in his relentless typing, frowned in confusion. "I beg your pardon?" he asked after a moment, looking up at the Blutbad.

"The morning after we met at the Queensboro Bridge the first time, when I woke up in that hotel room. You were alone in the next room, without your hired muscle. I could've killed you. Could've ripped out your throat and eaten you for breakfast." Harold twisted slightly but said nothing. John wasn't even exaggerating about eating him for breakfast. There was a good reason that Blutbaden were known as the Big Bad Wolf. "Why'd you take the risk?" John finally asked.

The Seltenvogel smiled slightly in recollection, his eyes drifting away from John. "It was a calculated risk, Mr. Reese. As Blutbaden go, you probably rank among the most impressively disciplined out there. I trusted that your momentary anger with me would not overcome the years you spent controlling your violent urges."

John's dark brows came together thoughtfully. "How could you make that assumption?"

"You left Anton O'Mara and his posse alive, for starters," Harold pointed out, leaning back in his seat.

It was so strange now, to recall that incident on the subway. John could have killed the whole lot of them so easily, to let go and give in to his rage and despair. To sheath his claws in their flesh and sink his teeth into their throats.

At the time, he hadn't thought he cared about anything, anymore. Jessica was dead, the CIA and everyone thought he had been killed in Ordos. But instead of releasing his inner wolf to eviscerate his smart-ass tormentors, he struck out at them with the training instilled in him by his years in the Army Special Forces. He responded as a human would, not a feral Blutbad. So Anton O'Mara and his wannabe gangster friends survived, embarrassed to hell at being trounced by a single broken homeless bum on the subway.

"That can't have been your only reason," John supposed. Finch was many things, but he was rarely impulsive, and usually had more than one reason for anything he did.

"Of course not." Finch couldn't shrug easily, thanks to his old injury, but he managed to infuse his bird-like stare with the same feeling. "Normally, Blutbaden do not fare well in the military unless they are able to strongly control the bloodlust. You not only served in the regular Army, you joined the Special Forces, which requires an even greater discipline. And then, to top it off, you joined the CIA. Tell me, how long would you have lasted in the Agency without your level of control? Blutbad kills are brutal, chaotic, and definitely _not subtle_."

John cracked a tiny smile, raising his eyebrows in amusement. "So, you trusted that I was the antithesis of everything Blutbad?"

The Seltenvogel stared at him mildly. "It was a _calculated_ risk, as I said, Mr. Reese."

There was a moment, back in that hotel room, when John had shoved Finch up against the wall, with his arm pressed against the other man's throat. He could smell the fear, of course, but looking into those eyes he saw a level of trust that he hadn't felt in years. It was a strange sensation to have someone put his life in his hands again. It reminded him of the man he used to be, the man he _wanted_ to be.

Because he wasn't just a killing machine, either human or wolf.

"Thanks. For taking the risk, Harold."

Finch smiled again; the eyes behind the glasses were weary, but John could read genuine happiness.

"You're welcome, Mr. Reese."


End file.
